


Misunderstandings

by okaywhateverokayyes



Category: SKAM (TV)
Genre: Clarifications, Comfort, Conversations, Expectations vs Reality, Humor, Mention of Chris, Mention of Elias Bakkoush, Mention of Eva, Mention of Noora, Mention of Vilde, Misunderstandings, Other, SKAM, Vilde hellerud Lien - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-03
Updated: 2017-06-03
Packaged: 2018-11-08 11:12:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11080365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okaywhateverokayyes/pseuds/okaywhateverokayyes
Summary: “Can I ask a dumb question?”(Post Episode 4.7 Bench Scene)P.S: They are both still sitting on the bench though.





	Misunderstandings

**Author's Note:**

> I want to preface this by saying that the conversation that transpired between Isak and Sana, as much as we have gleaned so much from it, I believe that the execution could have been different. Either way, this is something I hope they talked about post-episode and while we may never see it, I felt the need to write it.

Sana’s quiet.

She stretches her legs out in front of her, the wood creaking beneath her as she shifts closer to the edge. She soothes the crinkles in her shirt as she retracts her legs back, tilting her head to stare at the dandelions besides their feet.

She wonders how she misses out on them, as if they hadn’t existed until the pang in her chest ceases and it becomes easier to breathe.

She glares at Isak from her periphery, wrapping her fingers on the fringe of the bench as she throws on a quick smile.

It doesn’t feel like she has to force it and for once, it feels _nice_.

Isak returns a meager smile, his lips etching upwards his he creases his forehead.

“What?” He chuckles, kicking his foot into the sod as he turns to face her.

Sana shrugs, whisking her lips upwards in response.

“ _What is it,_ Sana Bakkoush?”

“ _Oh_ ,” Sana enunciates her word, “are we being serious, Isak Valtersen?” She’s jovial as she returns the jab.

Isak rolls his eyes, void of any ill-intent as he digs the sole of his shoe into the grass. He’s careful not to smudge any of the roots of the dandelions as he slides his foot across the pasture.

She taps her fingers along the seat, in verbatim. The sound that is produced is familiar but she has a rather arduous discerning what exactly she was hearing.

“Can I ask a _dumb_ question?”

Sana glances at Isak, watches as he looks off into the distance. He’s tilted his head back, eyes wide open as he glares at the sky, which Sana assumes. He’s blinking as the rays of sun penetrate his pupils, overshadowing whatever he has been focusing on.   

“Do the girls ask you any questions?” Isak starts with, “About you, your religion, your culture, any of it?” He sounds so serious, Sana feels the tangibility of gravity in that question as she ponders in silence.

There are many things running through her mind. Sometimes, Chris would. Noora, here and there. Eva-sometimes? Vilde- about russetiden-Eventually, they understood her specific ringtones. They knew things, that she was sure of. Most of the time, they made assumptions that weren’t completely inaccurate. She did not prefer to drink. But that didn’t mean they didn’t invite her to parties.

Sometimes their assumptions weren’t accurate, but they never necessarily made it seem like she had to explain herself or explain _it._ Whatever _it_ was.

Although, they never went out of their way to _ask, ask_. Whatever that meant.

“That wasn’t a dumb question, Isak Valtersen.” Sana mumbles as she picks at the chip of wood with her fingernail. It’s not hard-the wood is peeling easily under her graze and she stops tapping her fingers to continue to peel the groove.

Sana’s smile drops as the reticence takes over. It’s not a bad thing to be absorbed by silence. It’s calming and her ears perk as she picks up on the chirps of a cricket within the grass. It catches her eye as she wavers them over the scenery in front of her.

It’s tiny and she’s surprised that she’s even able to notice as it flings from one side to another.

As it jumps mid-air, it swooshes through the flower head, soft whisks of white fly into the air as it drops. Sana watches as the ghostly white seed heads mesh in with the horizon of the sky. It’s hue becoming one with the blue and grainy whites.

“Thank you.”

Sana whisks her head to face Isak, the words startling her.

“For?”

Isak shrugs, a playful smile appears back on his face-and to be completely honest, it never left.

“Saying what you said, that day,” Isak kicks a little bit harder into the sod, “that hate doesn’t come from religion…”

Isak wavers off as he looks away, his cheeks ruminating with a darker hue of red. It’s not so dark as it is in comparison to his pale flesh. His cheeks are flushed as he turns back to look at her, meeting her eyes with such softness in his pupils that it emanates laterally to her.

She feels the weight in her shoulders dissipate in such a quick swift motion, Sana lets out a ragged breath she doesn’t even realize she’s holding.

“Well, then I have to apologize.”

“For?” There’s a snarky snide in his voice that Sana rolls her eyes to, as if he’s pondering mentally - _what is Sana Bakkoush apologizing for-Sana, the one who is always correct-Sana, the one who can do no wrong-_ it’s sarcasm that is void of any malice.

“About saying that homosexuals…”

“Nah, nah, nah,” Isak clicks his tongue, “Det er kult, Sana.” He waves his hand mid-air, adjusting his snap back with his free hand as he tsk’s in verbatim, “Past is past.” He starts with, “And if you hadn’t said that, then you would have never told me about how hate doesn’t stem from religion and you know, I needed to hear those words,” there’s sterness in his voice as he repeats, “I really needed to hear that, that day so-don’t apologize.”

She believes him.

It’s the way she sees him clenching his jaw, his bones protruding in such detail through his flesh. He sniffles, his nostrils flaring slightly upwards but it’s so subtle, if she had blinked, she would have missed it. It’s as if he’s concentrating on his words and hoping to convey the sincerity of it.

And Sana’s not privy to them.

“Okay.”

Isak laughs quietly under his breath, “Okay?”

“Ok.” Sana is more resolve as she repeats.

Like there, _let’s not delve into that again._

The wind is delicate as it sways in her direction, the usually brisk weather softened by the bright sky. The sun’s rays are ghostly as they braze across the back of her hands. The warmth isn’t too blistering, but it daintly is absorbed by her skin as she gazes upwards.

She has to blink fastidiously as she watches the transparent clouds mesh into one another. Their moving ever so languidly and as she focuses on the drifts up above, the simplicity of it is comforting.

“I didn’t mean to call you a bitch.” Isak says, soberly.

Sana doesn’t miss a beat as she admits, “That was _rude_.”

Isak leans back, an apologetic sigh escapes his lips.

“I know, telling you that it just came out of my mouth is an excuse,” he says with a fond look, “And that _is an excuse_.”

Sana nods. Because that would be considered a loose pretext.

“No ifs, ands or buts about it,” Isak made the effort to sound reassuring, “I am sorry.”

She’s not necessarily justifying his ill-attempt at offering a rebuttal. She’s not going to rationalize it at all.  She’s not entirely sure what to make of him calling her that. It’s out of context, it’s entirely out of the blue. When the words escape his lips, Sana has to wonder whether they had even come out of Isak’s mouth. In no way is he incapable of making mistakes, it wasn’t that. Isak, like everyone else, is bound to make mistakes.  

It just seemed random. Unnecessary.

“You did nothing to warrant that.” Isak continues, a faint disappointment apparent in his voice, “That’s my fault. I’m sorry.”

Sana gravitates her hands to the sleeve of her pockets, sliding one of her hand in to grab her buzzing phone. There’s a message that flashes on her screen.

 _Mom_.

She presses her thumb onto the sensor, her phone clicking open. Sana swipes the message downwards, her eyes wavering as she quickly reads the message.

_Have you heard from Elias?_

_Sana: No._

She doesn’t send it yet.

Sana nibbles at her lower lip as she slides her fingers against the padded words.

_Sana: No. Maybe he’s with his friends._

Sana doesn’t miss a beat as she slips off the strand of her bag from her shoulder, placing it on her lap as she unzips the zipper to shove her phone into a crevice that she hopes would silence any imminent messages.

She presses her bag against her chest, expelling a stymied exhale as she leans backwards.

Sana is bothered. She’s bothered that her mother expects her to know where Elias is all times of the day. Not that her worries aren’t warranted but it’s as if she’s placing some level of expectation on her implicitly with that kind of responsibility. As if Elias wasn’t a grown man who has to be accountable for his own actions.

Which she necessarily isn’t saying that he isn’t but sometimes, when her mom asks her about where Elias is, what he’s doing, why he’s doing it, there’s the intractable side of her that just takes that as the only _possible explanation_.

That she needs to have answers to it all. Life. Friends. Whereabouts regarding her brother.

“I can’t be a mouthpiece, Isak.” Sana faces him, “The way you say it, it’s like you expect me to just have to always have to explain myself to someone else. I can’t be a mouthpiece for my entire religion. That’s not only impossible, that’s absurd!” Sana’s thinking of the logistics, of what that entails, “There’s 1.5 billion muslims in the world Isak. We’re all different. We all think differently. I can’t speak on behalf of anyone else and if I do, I’m not doing a _service_ to anyone,” Sana’s breathless as she finishes.

Isak’s frowning as he turns completely around to face her. He raises one of his leg and crosses it across the frame of the bench, resting his head on his clenched fist.

“I’m not saying that,” Isak says earnestly.

“You expect me to though, don’t you?” She’s whispers with a sad grimace, “That somehow I need to have all the answers because I’m not just a seventeen year old girl. I’m just supposed to know how everything works and why everything is the way it is because I wear _this_ and I also happen to be hanging with people who don’t practice my faith or my culture so I need to be a walking encyclopedia.”

Isak’s lips thin out. He scrunches up his nose as he concentrates on her words.

Sana watches as he uncreases his forehead, whisking his lips in what she presumes to be, thought.

She doesn’t give him the opportunity to reply as she spurts, “You’re privileged, Isak Valtersen. You’re more privileged than _me_ and that’s why you can say that. You can assume that I have to educate everyone,” Sana kneads her fingers together, flickering at her fingernails, “I won’t invalidate your experiences Isak-“

“I’m not trying to do-“

“But being a gay man, you don’t honestly think it’s equivalent to being a hijabi wearing muslim, do _you_?”

Isak’s frown deepens.

“Do _you_ really believe that?” She presses, keen on knowing his answers, “Do _you_?”

Isak stammers as he clamps down on his mouth.

At first, he looks at her with a piercing glare that slices through her vision.

She has to wonder whether she’s made an assumption about him that’s offended him.

But when his glower intensifies, Sana reaches forward as she wraps her hands around his wrist.

“I just want to know, that’s all.”

Isak glances at her grip; he nods agreeably as he threw on a quick simper.

“I think,” he begins only to exhale raggedly, “I _know_ islamophobia is _real_. It’s everywhere. It’s overt and it’s also subtle. I think we both want to believe the goodness in people but sometimes we don’t have to look for hate because it looks for _us_. I think there’s just bad people everywhere and they’re subverting their anger onto someone whose different-I think it’s wrong and unjust-“ he wets his lips, “I _think_ every minority faces oppression. But not everyone faces an equal amount of unjustness, some _more_ than  others. And I just-“

Isak looks away as he whispers, “-I just don’t want people to misunderstand you, Sana. People will always make assumptions and that’s not fair-right?” It’s rhetorical, “I just want them to know who you are without them displacing those assumptions onto you before they have the chance to _talk_ to you,” he growls in frustration as he turns to look at her,  “Because yeah, you wear a hijab **_and_** you’re kind, smart, funny-and some people won’t think those qualities could be possibly attributed to you-” his gaze softens, “and it makes me _angry_.” He emphasizes, “It’s just-“

Sana squeezes a little bit harder.

“Frustrating.” She offers, only for Isak to nod in agreement.

That’s something she could _understand_.

That sentiment is so visceral, Sana gives a tight squeeze once more before dropping her hand.

“I’m not invalidating your experiences, Sana,” Isak stresses,  “I can’t imagine what it must feel like to have to have those expectations, all the time. I mean-you have to listen to _me_ telling _you_ how to educate others,” he rolls his eyes in sheer travesty, “I’m the fucking idiot who needs to check his privilege, remember?”

It gets a chuckle out of Sana, a sentiment so arbitrary, Sana hangs her head down.

She remembers what Jamila had once said to her, her words so distant it seems like it’s been in the past life-

_You can’t let someone else tell you what your faith means to you. Only **you** know what it means to you._

“I’m not invalidating your experience either, Isak,” She has a dire urgency to say it, “I don’t know what it means to be a gay man and I don’t know what questions people have for you but I am aware of the assumptions people do make about homosexuals,” Sana says truthfully, “ _And_ I want people to get to know you before you just become the gay guy in the group.”

Isak chortles, as if that label was awfully familiar.

It’s implicit in the way he tosses his head back and lets out another low chuckle.

“Well, good.” He wipes his hands across his jeans, “We’re on the same page, Sana Bakkoush?”

His eyes meet hers, an implicit understanding forms instantaneously.

Like they can both agree to disagree.

And that they’re not on the opposite sides of some taut line

They’re both on the same side, fighting different battles.

“Yeah. We sure are, Isak Valtersen.”

  

**Author's Note:**

> THANKS FOR READING. I hope I didn't offend anyone and if I have, please let me know here or on tumblr @okaywhateverokayyes
> 
> P.S: Let me know if you have any prompts


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